


hard and silver and pure without fear

by birdring (twoif)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Drunk Sex, Extremely Fatalistic Imagination, M/M, Poor Life Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 05:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14763582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoif/pseuds/birdring
Summary: He wanted to tell Peter,I'm happy you chose me, even if you didn't want me, even if I'm the only choice. All the English words for that sentence, even the ones he knew, buzzed around randomly in his head like insects, and he grabbed the air in front of him, trying to rearrange them into sense. What came out of his mouth was, "I love you."Joosung gets everything he wants, and it ruins him.





	hard and silver and pure without fear

So yes, the first mistake they made was getting drunk. It was Miami, they had just won the spring championship, and it was not the drunkest Joosung had ever been in his life, not even close. It wasn't even the first time he'd gotten drunk with Peter, but the last time was in Seoul during their boot camp, a lifetime ago. Peter—warm, too red, laughing too loudly—now appeared to him whole and new, like a limb Joosung had grown without knowing, a part of him that he had never closely examined but whose movements he could predict perfectly. He found his fingers permanently affixed to the belt loops of Peter's pants as they moved from after-party to bar and then back to their hotel. Peter had given up trying to remove him two drinks ago. He kept telling Peter he wanted to see his hotel room. "It's the same as yours, you idiot," Peter told him, swatting at him until his hand landed on Joosung's head, his short fingernails scratching along the back of Joosung's neck as he pulled away, and Joosung dug in harder, his instincts inflamed. 

And then, probably the second mistake had been telling Peter he loved him. They barged into Peter's room, attached at the hip like one too-large laughing beast. Joosung tried to trip Peter so that they would both fall on the bed, but Peter hipchecked him instead, dumping him on the bed and moving toward the windows to close the blinds. A small, sober kernel of his brain knew it was because Peter expected to pass out shortly and wanted to keep the sun from waking him up at 6am, but most of him saw it like Peter closing off the rest of the world from looking in on them. With the windows blacked out, they could shut out their teammates, the fans, Travis, Bonnie whom Peter had not taken back to his hotel room, Bonnie who should be here instead of Joosung, Bonnie who had brought Peter to them after dinner and then bowed out of the celebrations—a perfect girlfriend, a perfect player wife. 

He wanted to tell Peter, _I'm happy you chose me, even if you didn't want me, even if I'm the only choice_. All the English words for that sentence, even the ones he knew, buzzed around randomly in his head like insects, and he grabbed the air in front of him, trying to rearrange them into sense. What came out of his mouth was, "I love you."

He saw Peter freeze, back framed by the night lights of Miami and arm outstretched for the curtain. His mouth moved on without him. "I let you do anything you want, you know, to me." 

He'd meant: _cut me down, cuss me out, tell me I'm shit, tell me my Braum is fucking awful_. Other things came to mind, like the way his heart had dropped the first time Peter had turned away from a hug, telling him, _we don't do that kind of stuff, Olleh_. But suddenly Peter was kneeling over him in bed, not touching him with anything but the inside of his thighs. Peter's hands were on his own knees, curved in claws, like he was trying so hard to keep himself contained. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Peter rasped. "What do you think I want to do?"

Peter was heavy. Joosung felt his breath leaving his chest in tiny gasps, trying to hold the weight. Peter was unreadable even at the best of times, said sad or mean things to Joosung even while smiling, used that smile of his—shark-like, ungiving—like a mask. Seeing him shocked felt like a victory, and he grinned stupidly up at Peter. "Whatever you want," Joosung whispered. 

Joosung processed it in pieces, like the whole of it was too much for him, and maybe it was. His equilibrium was thrown. Pinned to the bed under Peter, it occurred to him that he was at just the right angle to put his mouth on Peter's stomach. Once it materialized, he couldn't think about anything else. He yanked up Peter's shirt, fitted himself against Peter's bare skin, and Peter made a noise Joosung had never heard before. He did it again, just to hear it. Peter burned against him, his hands hot against the back of Joosung's head, nothing tender, but paralyzed, like he wasn't sure whether he should jerk Joosung away or press him down further. When Joosung scraped his teeth against Peter's hipbone, he expected the skin to tear away and reveal the blood underneath, moving like lava, and when it didn't he kept going, mouthing up, across, further down, feeling safe, one hand slipping against the waistband of Peter's pants, the other at the zipper, testing. And then, like a cut scene, sudden with none of the connective tissue, he was trying to swallow Peter down, determined to prove himself. If he could play support for Peter, if he could help Peter win in lane, if they could win the spring split, surely this—surely this—

Too deep. His eyes watered as he backed up, coughing, his hand automatically going to Peter's hips to hold himself up. "Fuck," Peter said, and he looked stunned, like he'd been punched in the face. "Fuck."

"Good?" Joosung asked, and wasn't sure what exactly he was asking, _does it feel good, am I still good, are we still good?_

Peter shook his head. With Peter's hand still cradling the back of his head, Joosung knew it wasn't a no, but he couldn't understand anything else. He wanted to tell him, _I can't believe this is happening either,_ but instead they were kissing, and kissing, and he wanted to be open for Peter, to accept, to read each of Peter's cues, how to tilt his head and when and where to use his tongue. He was afraid of failure, of Peter telling him he was no good, _not even at this_. It was just like anytime they were on the rift, he wanted to explain to Peter, like anytime they needed to advance into the perilous dark, only Peter was saying no and yes at the same time, scrabbling at Joosung's glasses and face like a madman who didn't know how to separate the violence of his own feelings from sex. And Joosung, trying to give, trying to receive. 

In the end, they jerked each other off. Peter came first, almost silent as Joosung kissed his stomach, carefully, to avoid tasting any of the mess, and then he held Joosung in place, arms straining, as he finished Joosung off. "I've got you, Olleh," Peter kept murmuring, using his handle like they were in a fucking game and he was shotcalling, and Joosung started laughing but then found himself coming in great, shuddering breaths, crying desperately into the damp fabric of Peter's shoulder. When he was finally done, Peter tucked him under his chin so that he could kiss the top of Joosung's head, like a father might when consoling an upset child. Joosung couldn't stop shaking, and when he tried to break away, his strength failed him. 

"Don't," Peter croaked. He petted Joosung's back, short awkward strokes, like he'd never touched another human being in quite this way before. It occurred to Joosung, the knowledge poured into his head without warning or context, that this was something Peter was doing for him and him alone. He knew, somehow, that Peter didn't hold Bonnie like this. Joosung had spent most of his life being a good person to a lot of people he didn't know well but not a very good person to the people closest to him, and in this exact moment that manifested as a guilty exhilaration. He had something Bonnie might never have. Bonnie would never have Peter quite like this. And he, too, might never have Peter like this again.

He was trapped in a vise of his good and bad intentions. They wound tightly around him, as tight as Peter's grasp, and held in place on all sides, he fell asleep. 

-

He woke up the next morning alone in Peter's bed. Peter was right—their hotel rooms were the same. For a second he was disorientated, sure that last night was a dream. It was past nine. Peter had helpfully taken off Joosung's pants and plugged his phone into the bedside charger, but most of Joosung was still sprawled out on the bed, not even covered with a blanket, shivering in the abundant hotel air-conditioning. It was unclear if Peter had fallen asleep in the same way, or where. There was a trace of dried cum on Joosung's shirt. He wasn't sure whose it was. 

On Twitter, Damian and Jun were posting pictures and videos of the team from Frank Azor's boat. At some point during the night, Joosung had forgotten about the morning boat ride. He'd meant to set an alarm for himself, but like all of his good intentions, it had never come to fruition. He scrolled mindlessly down his timeline, stopping when he got to a tweet from Peter, also posting a video from the boat. Peter had remembered, obviously, and hadn't bothered to wake him up, obviously. A dull pain was developing over his right eye. Joosung couldn't tell if it was the beginnings of a hangover or a broken heart. His mentions were inundated with people congratulating him, even a few from the fan who had held up the sign asking him to go to Disneyland with her. For the moment, they felt like a hundred tiny cuts. 

He turned his phone off and and threw it across the room. It didn't hit a wall, only skittered across the carpet, disappearing under a chair like a scared animal.

The blankets didn't smell like anything but soap and faint bleach. He burrowed into them and went back to sleep.

-

It was noon by the time he actually dragged himself out of bed and shamefully retrieved his phone. His own hotel room was how he left it yesterday—cold, bright, empty. He pulled at the blanket and top sheet, shaking them roughly, to make it seem like he slept here after all. He'd missed a call from Coach Cain and several texts from Eugene and Jake asking if he wanted to get food. Mostly, he wanted to be left alone, and also to smoke a whole pack of cigarettes, but he was freshly out and couldn't face the idea of going outside to buy more, even if his teammates were probably nowhere close to the hotel. He felt like his face must be raw, rubbed open, and was shocked to see himself in his bathroom mirror looking whole and healthy, even smiling faintly. His hair was a mess, but it always was. Other than his rumpled clothes, there was no proof that anything wild had happened. He took a breath, trying to swallow down his disassociation.

He was running the shower, waiting for the water to warm up, when his phone started buzzing. He picked up without looking at the screen to see who it was, and almost dropped the phone into the water when Vincent's voice rang out, "Dude, congratulations." He sounded genuinely pleased, which made Joosung feel worse than he had all morning. Joosung turned off the water and sunk down onto the bathroom floor, resting his forehead against his knees, letting the sound of Vincent's voice wash over him. "You guys were so good," Vincent was saying. "Man, a clean sweep. I knew you were going to win but it was like, holy shit." 

He didn't know the right words for casual sex between men in English. _I fucked Peter. We slept together._ That wasn't right. Grasping at meaning, any meaning, he came up with only, "I kiss Peter last night." 

There was a pause. "You what?"

It was the second time in less than 24 hours that Joosung's mouth had betrayed him. Joosung didn't want to do this to Vincent, who sounded so normal and free from drunken hookups with his teammates, but Vincent was the only one who had called, and he was fragile right now. He couldn't carry Peter all by himself, and Vincent, at least, had shared him once too. Joosung had started down this path, and now he couldn't stop. That was probably his mistake last night, too, and all the other nights, one long mistake that he put into motion months ago, when Liquid picked up Doublelift and Doublelift agreed to lane with Olleh, and he hadn't been able to stop any of it.

"We also did other shit," Joosung said. "Not all, but some."

Vincent inhaled, then exhaled deeply into the phone. With his eyes squeezed shut, Joosung thought he could hear things he'd never been able to before: water running through the pipes of the entire hotel building, his own blood rushing to his face, and the waves of Miami Beach outside, incessant, consuming. Vincent was at home, Joosung was pretty sure, some place in Canada that he thought was maybe where they'd played summer finals last year. He thought, despite the distance, that he could hear Vincent's own body working, his ears taking Joosung's words and processing them, dumbfounded, like a bee making honey from the pollen of Joosung's words, the poison of Joosung's mistake running through another person and ruining them too.

"Did Peter... make you?"

Joosung laughed in disbelief. It felt like vomiting. "No, no. We were drunk. I was drunk." Not that drunk, he didn't say. "I think."

"Where's Peter now? Is he with you?" Vincent's voice hardened. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"No," Joosung said, thankful for the last question so that he didn't have to admit to Vincent that Peter had run out on him. "I freak out, like, tell you dumb shit. Not your problem. Sorry."

"Hey, no, what, don't apologize. Do you—I mean—are you okay?"

"I don't think so," he said. It was the honest answer, even if it wasn't the right one. He was tearing up again, and was angry that he was this weak, this easily unmoored. "I don't know."

"You're going to be fine," Vincent told him firmly, which made Joosung laugh again. Vincent sounded like Coach Cain reassuring them after a bad scrim, so solid and sure of himself, putting his own anger aside to calm Joosung down. It was such a horrible thing, to have proof over and over again that Vincent was the kind of good person Joosung would never be, reliable and considerate and all those adjectives Joosung thought of when he thought of good people. Joosung had always had the natural tendency to compare himself, to cut himself down to size in front of more worthy competition, and the fact that Vincent was Peter's last support was an extra twist of the knife. 

"You don't know that." His voice broke, which made it worse. 

"Yeah, I do," Vincent snapped at him. Joosung wasn't sure if Vincent was angry at him or for him and whether it mattered. Distantly, he thought he could hear Peter say, _don't measure your worth by what other people say about you_. Yet another way for Joosung to fail Peter, as if he didn't have enough of them. 

He felt himself wanting to test Vincent. If Vincent thought of him as a victim, then surely it would mean Joosung was a good person who didn't deserve this—but he wasn't able to bring himself to tell Vincent that he was the one who started it, who told Peter that he wanted it, who egged him on until this was the only path either of them could take. He had been both cowardly and manipulative, a spider wrapping itself in silk so that a butterfly might wander by, thinking it was safe. He was doing it again, now, with Vincent, his silence wrapping Vincent up in the same lie.

"Can I do anything?" Vincent asked. He sounded like he was delicately picking his way through his words, like Joosung was a puppy he was trying to convince to come out from under the bed. Joosung pressed his forehead harder into his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. He thought of a hundred things, and nothing at all, but mostly he ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the sour taste of being abandoned, of being someone's personal disappointment. 

Finally, he mumbled, his hand cupped around the receiver as if to keep anyone else from hearing his shame, "Could you, like, stay on the phone for a little bit. I don't have anything else to say. But could you. Just."

"Yeah, sure," Vincent breathed. "Anything you want."

It never occurred to Joosung how much it would hurt to hear the thing he most wanted to hear in the world, but from the mouth of someone who was all wrong for him. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Peter had felt the same way about him. 

-

Peter came back in the late afternoon. Joosung was packing for their flight back to L.A., and when he heard the knocking, he'd expected Jun, who knew better than to let Joosung take care of his own things and generally held Joosung's passport at all times except when Joosung was actively en route or in an airport. When he opened the door to Peter's face, he almost slammed it shut again. Peter, trying to slide into Joosung's room, had put his hand stupidly against the door jamb, and there were a harrowing few seconds when Joosung just narrowly avoided breaking all the fingers in Peter's right hand.

"Holy shit," Peter breathed, this time putting his whole body into the doorway. "Are you that pissed off at me?"

"No," Joosung said, because that was the truth. "Sorry." 

He tried to close the door again, but Peter didn't move, intent on getting in Joosung's way. Joosung gave up, leaning against the wall of the hotel room's narrow entrance instead, his hand still gripping the handle of the door like a latch chain preventing Peter from coming inside. Peter peered at him, ducking his head to try to get Joosung to look at him, but Joosung kept his eyes trained on the carpet, willing himself not to cry. 

"You okay?" Peter asked.

Joosung bit his lip. "Not mad at you," he managed, voice tight. "Maybe, like, mad at myself. I was fucking stupid. All my fucking fault. Sorry."

"Whoa, hey, dude. Dude." 

It was unbelievable how empty this hotel was, Joosung thought wildly as Peter moved in even closer. Where was the rest of his team to come save Joosung from this conversation? He wasn't ready. Maybe he'd never be. 

"Will you just look at me?" Peter whispered. 

Still, he couldn't. Peter cupped Joosung's face with both of his hands, his thumbs pressed against the sides of Joosung's mouth, and Joosung couldn't help it. He leaned in, giving himself over to Peter's palms, and it was not a reaction he'd had for a very long time but it nevertheless felt ingrained in his body, an instinct he uncovered more than developed. Peter had always claimed his body temperature ran a degree or two higher than the human average, even when he wasn't sick. Joosung felt it now, and thought back to the way Peter had first felt against his mouth, impossibly, dangerously hot. He was going to be sick, which would probably end with him vomiting on Peter's shirt. Horrified, he tried to jerk away, but Peter was always stronger than him—physically, mentally, almost psychopathically. He wrenched Joosung's face back towards him, so they were finally looking eye to eye. 

Peter frowned. "It's not your fault."

"You only say that when you think it is," Joosung blurted out. "You never say that when you mean it."

"I'm not—I'm—" 

He tried to break free from Peter's hold, but his hands failed him. He pressed them, trembling, into Peter's wrists. "You blame me for everything, you always do, and I know, it's me, it's my-"

It was like vertigo. He was thrown again, this time hard against the back of his door. Peter had pivoted, wrestling them both through the doorway of Joosung's hotel room, and it wasn't a kiss so much as Peter crushing their mouths together. "Just shut the fuck up—don't—just don't—" Peter hissed, and Joosung told him, _no_ , told him, _I can't_ , kept saying, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ , and Peter kissed him over and over again, kept kissing him until it felt like Joosung's mouth was one big bruise, one big apology that couldn't quite make itself heard or believed. He was hiccuping now, out of breath and still trying not to cry. Peter's mouth was hot against Joosung's neck, moving, and Joosung wasn't sure what words Peter was forming, if any at all, and he reached out to hold Peter in place, to flatten his hand against Peter's shoulder, to make sense of their bodies, sure that Peter and Peter alone could tell him the truth, but then Peter was gone, the door closed behind him like he'd never been there in the first place, and maybe he hadn't. 

They flew back home. Peter didn't talk to Joosung once, and no one seemed to notice, and Joosung rested his head against the plastic shutter of his window and imagined their plane going down, crashing to the ground in flames, and of Peter getting up from the wreckage, untouched, and walking away without even looking back to see if Joosung was still alive, only Joosung was, they were both alive, the only two people left alive in the world, and Peter walked away from him anyway.

-

Joosung had always lived with his heart on his sleeve, a slave to his own emotional ups and downs. For the most part, he'd carried himself through three different leagues—and now NALCS—by wanting very much to be content and enthusiastic about his life, but he'd always thought that he'd kept what few Brazilian fans he'd made because he thought mostly with his heart and not his head. It wasn't the best way to handle the vagaries of being a professional gamer; it was an even worse way to handle heartbreak. 

Which, a few days after returning from Miami, was clearly what he was nursing. It had crystallized, like pus hardening in the sutured tear that was his and Peter's relationship, stretching it apart even while he knew it would eventually heal them. By now, it was no longer just a joke that this rendition of Team Liquid was more coworkers pulling a lifetime of overtime with each other and less a family, underscored by how quickly the team dispersed once given the chance—Eonyeong to Vegas alone, Jake to his family, and Eugene too. Win, lose, or ill-considered one-night stand with his overemotional support, Peter was always supposed to stop by at home and then spend a few days with Bonnie during the break, so it was no great surprise that Peter had barely landed in L.A. before he was off again. 

In the end, it was only Joosung left at the house. He'd learned from breaking up with his girlfriend last year that the worst thing he could do to himself at a moment like this was to be alone and stewing in it, but there was honestly nothing to be done about it, and no one to suggest alternatives. For one precarious moment, late in the night or very early in the morning before Peter was due to Uber to the airport, both of them had been in the kitchen getting something to drink, and it had seemed like Peter wanted to talk. He'd trapped Joosung against a counter and opened his mouth, but then must have thought better of it, turning away in the dark. Joosung spent the first two sleepless nights after Peter's departure feverishly wondering what Peter would have said, if Peter was going to apologize, if—impossibly, inconceivably—Peter might have been considering asking Joosung to come with him. 

But a week into the break, and it was clear that Peter had no intention of talking to Joosung about anything. They had never been a demonstrative botlane, not like Joosung was with Cody, who texted frequently, even during breaks and even about things unrelated to the game. But usually he and Peter checked in with each other, at least, little exchanges about patches or what episode of Gossip Girl Joosung had finished. It had been a week, and Peter hadn't so much as asked to duo. Joosung got most of his updates on what Peter was up to through Vincent, who seemed to be dangling tidbits about Peter's movements in front of Joosung like bait, trying to trap Joosung into a longer conversation about how he was feeling. 

Mostly, how Joosung felt was bad. He knew that telling Vincent he felt bad would make Vincent feel bad too, which would make Joosung feel even worse, a chain reaction that Joosung could only prevent by keeping everything to himself. He regretted having burdened Vincent with it in the first place. As penance, he spent most of the Peter-less half of the break fending Vincent off with cheerful and nonchalant texts, going to restaurants by himself and tweeting pictures, and playing a lot of League. It was the closest approximation he had to a normal state, and for a while he got away with it.

It was Tuesday before someone called him out on it. "What's wrong with you recently?" Jun asked, idly poking Joosung in the back of the neck as he waited for his queue to pop. 

Joosung slid off his headphones and flashed Jun a smile. "Nothing?"

"It's just, you seem manic, all over the place. Is something wrong?"

"I'm excited for MSI," Joosung lied. "I've never been to Germany."

"We're going to Amsterdam first," Jun sighed. 

"Isn't that in Germany?"

He could tell he wasn't fooling Jun, who radiated skepticism as he shook his head and withdrew, but it was enough plausible deniability to get Jun to leave him alone, at least for now. The last twenty-four hours had been especially rough, with Peter coming back to L.A. only to duo with Vincent and publicly stream his attempt at trying to set up Vincent with some girl on the internet who had the misfortune of catching Doublelift's expansive and slightly sadistic eye. Joosung took jabs at Peter all day about not playing together, and even tweeted about it in a fit of mild insanity, letting the phrase "miserable wife" slip out before realizing how it sounded. 

Jun was right, of course—all this was manic, downright annoying to both himself and Peter. Joosung was desperate to get Peter to react to him somehow, and even knowing that each desperate act was another mark Peter would hold against him, he couldn't stop himself. With no way to force Peter's hand, and convinced that this was it for them, this was how they were going to go to MSI, Joosung settled on being bitter: daring Peter to play with Biofrost, nagging Peter to play with Bonnie, making jokes about how Biofrost had stolen his ADC into Peter's mic, even.

Peter wrapped up the stream with an exaggerated stretch, letting the back of his hand brush against Joosung's shoulder. "I want to talk to you about something," he said. He glanced to one side, where Eonyeong was chatting with the coaches. "About the game," Peter finished lamely, even though no one was listening to them.

Joosung tried to remember a time when talking to Peter didn't make him feel sick or like he needed to run for his life. He swallowed, his hand still on his mouse like a lifeline. "Now?"

"Now," Peter agreed, and put his arm around Joosung's shoulders, somehow lifting him from his seat into the VOD review room.

The mock theater was cool and quiet, like always. Joosung made a beeline for the couch, picking up one of the cushions so he could hold it tight against his chest, like he expected Peter to physically come for his heart and needed it for a shield. Peter fiddled with the AV controls, turning on the projector to show whatever had been playing there last, which turned out to be a VOD of the spring finals on mute. Joosung winced. 

"You wanted to show me this game?" Joosung said, and was horrified at how snide he sounded. 

"What game?" Peter turned his head and, as if realizing for the first time what was on, started a little. "Oh. No. I just needed something to do with my hands for a second."

Standing by the door, face turned towards the projection screen and Summoner's Rift reflecting off his glasses, Peter seemed more unreadable, more distant, than usual. But moments later, he came over to the couch and sat down next to Joosung, cornering Joosung between his body and the bend of the sectional. Joosung kept his eyes trained on the screen, and after a few seconds of excruciatingly close silence, Peter sighed and jerked the cushion out of Joosung's arms, throwing it on the floor. 

"I shouldn't have kissed you," Peter told him. 

Joosung's heart dropped, free-falling down the treacherous inches between his chest and the floor. "Which time?" His body felt wrong around the words, squeezed out and airless.

"I mean, at all. But mostly that last time. In the hotel before we left. It was a mixed message."

He was having a hard time even hearing Peter, ears all plugged up with cotton, and maybe that was the fear getting in the way, trying to cocoon him to keep this from happening to him, shutting down to keep Peter's words from reaching him. He stared back at Peter, mouthing Peter's words back to himself, trying to understand, trying to find something to say that didn't sound utterly pathetic. "What was mix?" 

Peter looked at him in dismay. He shifted closer. "I shouldn't have made it seem—you know what, never mind. It doesn't matter. I fucked up and I know I didn't handle things very well." Peter spread his hands out in front of them, like an offering, but his shoulders were still raised, tight and defensive against his body. It made him look like he was shrugging, even though Joosung thought he was trying to look open, probably. "I shouldn't have waited until now to tell you that it shouldn't have happened." 

Joosung stared back at him, uncomprehending, and Peter, mistakenly thinking his English was the problem, clarified, "From the beginning I should have said no instead of—of taking advantage. I should have known better. We're too old to play these games." 

"We play game for our job," Joosung snapped, but laughed when he realized what he had said. Startled, Peter laughed too, and even through the shock, Joosung could feel some small part of himself taking notes, thinking, _this is what it feels like to be Peter all the time_. Saying things and laughing even when you weren't joking. Laughing even when you felt bad and wanted the other person to feel bad. 

"Yeah, but it's not—it's kind of—whatever, my point is, this got out of hand. For both of us. We can't be like this, going into MSI. We can't let this cost the team."

Joosung closed his eyes, inhaling shakily. It was hard to pinpoint what he felt exactly. Relief, because at least Peter was talking to him. Disappointment, at the same time. This was what he'd expected from Peter, a return to normality, to "all for the game and the game for all." Of course Peter wouldn't blame Joosung, of course Peter would frame it as an aberration, a mutation of their game. It was easy to retreat into the game, he wanted to tell Peter. But he had no high ground of his own. He'd spent the last week using it as a cover to draw Peter out, which had worked, for better or worse. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw that Peter was staring at him intently. Peter looked like he was smiling, or admiring something only he could see, but the problem with Peter, Joosung had learned, was that either of those could still be a prelude to something hurtful. Joosung wanted, irrationally, for Peter to hold him by two hands again, around his neck and chin, to let Joosung just surrender, and let that be the answer, but Peter was picking absently at his cuticles, the way he always did when he was feeling uncomfortable and resentful. 

"I hate you," Joosung said, tired all of a sudden. "Really, really. A lot. "

Peter looked away, blinking rapidly. "I know. I've been—trying to give you space. Maybe that makes me an asshole. You're a good person and you don't deserve to be, uh—"

"You're right," Joosung cut in. He didn't want to hear anything else, afraid that Peter might make him cry again. "You were asshole to me."

"Yeah," Peter said, swallowing. "But honestly, I was scared too. Or I don't know, maybe you weren't. I just don't want to fuck this thing up. I've fucked up so many..."

He didn't finish his sentence. Joosung waited, in part because he wondered if Peter would keep going if Joosung let him, but mostly because he knew Peter wanted him to say something and he didn't yet know what to say. _Nothing's wrong with us_. That much was clearly a lie. _It's all my fault, I was the one that fucked it up_. That seemed to just be re-litigating the issue, bringing them back to the entranceway of Joosung's Miami hotel room, and that had gotten them nowhere. _Let's break up_. Overly dramatic, because what was there to break up? They had only the game now, and he wanted to keep playing, at least, keep being Doublelift and Olleh, if nothing else. 

What he actually wanted to say was, _maybe you've got it all wrong_. Maybe it wasn't that they were fucking up their teamwork, maybe platonic teamwork between them was the thing that was fucked up, maybe they were always meant to get here. Maybe this thing that had happened between them that night was not a fuck-up at all, only they were handling it wrong right now, by pretending it was. After all, it'd been fine at the time, they'd been fine when they were doing it, it wasn't until Joosung had woken up all alone in Peter's hotel room that it started to go wrong. It wasn't until Peter had left Joosung to deal with it all alone that it had gone wrong. Maybe slicing this off, reducing them to that contentious but still functional botlane they were before, was the real fuck-up, and they needed to do it again, and more, and bigger, and _together_ , until it finally razed everything to the ground and left something new and less dangerous in its place.

But Joosung knew he could never say any of that, even if he knew the words for it. It was too terrifying to comprehend. In the end, Peter, too, just needed solid ground. And Peter was right, like he always was—the week before MSI was no time to start any of it. 

Joosung reached for the cushion on the floor. "Don't worry," he said, fluffing it in his hands. "We're not fuck up. We're more strong than that."

Peter went very still. Then, as if emerging from the cold, or shaking off an invisible burden, he shivered just slightly, his mouth curving into a smile. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

He sounded smaller somehow, unsure of himself, not the usual Peter with his blistering self-confidence, who would speak first and regret later. It scared Joosung. He tried to put on a smile too, to convince Peter that they _were_ okay. It felt like splitting open his face, a knife being pulled out of a wound. Peter made an aborted movement to get up but then lurched forward, opening his arms. "Do you want to—" he looked at Joosung pleadingly.

Joosung didn't. But, moved to pity, he nodded. Something—mostly relief, Joosung thought—passed over Peter's face, and he wrapped his arms carefully around Joosung's shoulders, crushing the cushion between them. Peter was warm, damn him, despite being in only a t-shirt, and Joosung let himself go totally still, willed himself not to tremble, not to let himself get carried away. They sat that way for a long time, one of Peter's hands resting feather-light on the back of Joosung's head. With his chin cradled in Peter's shoulder, Joosung watched the end of the spring finals. It was the Riot stream, and he saw the Peter on screen also get up, also reach for the Joosung on screen. But that Joosung seemed happy, elated despite the crying. That Joosung had given himself over to Peter wholly, and trusted that no harm would come to him, trusted without any proof, and felt Peter's embrace like an affirmation. He remembered having thought in that moment, _finally, you motherfucker_. And now, he wondered, what was it that he felt? 

Finally, Peter withdrew and got up from the couch without looking back. Joosung wiped at his eyes, but they were dry. He got up too, straightened out his shirt, and followed Peter out of the room. The distance between them seemed like an ocean. The Joosung of before would have tried to grab onto Peter's shirt, or rushed to Peter's side so they could walk together as they left. Now, he pulled back, leashing himself, his body taut. _This is what Peter would have done_ , he thought to himself. Clean, and strong, and heartless like a motherfucker. They would be forged together in this, at least, if nothing else. He could give this to Peter, at least, the last part of his heart that he'd break for Peter, broken until there was nothing more to break and was strong at last. Broken until breaking was no longer a mistake. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- ty to unnidol for the beta as always  
> \- jun is dodo, who is technically a junhyeok but listed in squad as "jung" and writes his name as "jun" on his twitter profile  
> \- title from [this](https://everything2.com/user/antigravpussy/writeups/I+will+be+hard+and+silver+and+pure+without+fear.): _I will be hard and silver and pure without fear. I will be needed and I will be your tool, I will be the wall and I will be the nook wherein fits the hook; bind me, undo me, unleash me. ... I was made to be honest and true, and I will hurt you as much as you really need me to; you can trust me. And long after you no longer need me to break you, I will break you. The fear has been burnt from my flesh as the stars were torn from my eyes; I glitter and shimmer like clear metal, I keep my word._  
>  \- there were a lot of clips from that pre-msi break that i wanted to share bc it seemed to tell a story about olleh and doublelift's relationship that i couldn't and didn't want to parse, but i think i'll just leave you guys with [this one](https://clips.twitch.tv/ResourcefulKitschyAlligatorMcaT)  
> \- "[i have been here like miserable wife](https://twitter.com/TLOlleh/status/988961610118004741)"  
> \- things (msi) will get bad before it gets better, i'm sorry olleh


End file.
